


Our Daily Bread

by torrential



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Food Porn, Gen, Timeline What Timeline, no ships yet but subject to change, plot-light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrential/pseuds/torrential
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack’s Breadline was a little bakery in Hell’s Kitchen that did good business. And then Steve Rogers walked in looking for a cinnamon roll and everything went aRYE.</p>
<p>Or the bakery AU where Matt’s baking attracts superheroes and subsequently ruins his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the Daredevil Kink Meme: _Matt has long channeled his frustrations into the form of baked goods (the nuns were total enablers) and so, instead of law, he opens a bakery. Thanks to his heightened senses, everything is like an "edible orgasm" according to one lurid review, and the coffee is worth killing someone over._
> 
> _It ends up attracting a lot of superheroes? Matt doesn't know why?_
> 
> This isn't done but it's been not-done since September so I figured I might as well start posting what I had, with some edits. Some changes are just tweaks in word choice while others will actually impact the plot, hence me not linking to the version on the kinkmeme. Rather off the cuff writing -- it's still mostly a crack excuse for Marvel cameos as opposed to anything with a coherent plot structure. :D;
> 
> Credit to @amaronith for the ridiculous pun in the summary. XD

Really, Matt blamed Captain America. He’d never had this problem until Steve Rogers wandered into Jack’s Breadline one day, attracted by the scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls the size of his biceps and drenched in maple-coffee glaze. Rogers ended up carrying out an entire bag of assorted baked goods and that, Matt figured, was the end of that.

Until Pepper Potts’s personal assistant called in requesting two dozen danishes for a morning meeting. And shortly after that Tony Stark himself appeared to demand a berry crostata fresh out of the oven. Peter had nearly swallowed his whisk upon meeting Steve Rogers; Matt was worried he was going to have an actual heart attack in the middle of icing cookies when Stark paid for his crostata -- and half the display case -- with a Black Amex.

“Just think of it as good publicity,” Karen said as they were closing that day. “We could put up a sign saying we’re the go-to place for the Avengers when they want baked goods.”

Matt groaned. “First of all, I don’t feel like getting sued by Stark’s entire legal team, no matter how much he likes our crostatas. Second of all, do we really want every autograph-chaser in New York descending on this place?”

“It’d get rid of the hipsters,” Peter pointed out from where he was sweeping the floor. That actually gave Matt some pause. “After all, you can’t keep your cred attending a place you knew before it was cool after it becomes cool.”

“Hipsters have money like anyone else,” Matt said, not without some reluctance. “It’s the gawkers and idlers I’m worried about.”

“So no sign,” Karen said, closing up the register. “Still, I have a feeling the word is out.”

She was right. The flow of famous personalities and the associated crowds didn’t abate, especially after some foodie blog posted about the “all-natural, all-organic hidden gem in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.” At first it was a trickle: Johnny Storm liked pistachio muffins. Steve Rogers kept swinging by for cinnamon rolls until it was policy to set one aside for him every morning. Sam Wilson gushed over Matt’s chocolate-walnut cookies (“Just like mom’s!”) and always ended up grabbing a dozen to share or hoard, Matt wasn’t sure which.

The increased superhero patronage had its effects, as Matt had predicted. Thankfully there were fewer autograph hounds than he’d feared, but the line for baked goods and fair-trade coffee soon stretched out the door and around the block, and all seven small tables were almost always full. At least the various heroes who kept showing up were patient about waiting their turn, and understanding if Matt ran out of various items before they made it to the counter. It was the mundane crowd that caused problems in that area more often than not -- he’d subdued tweakers who were calmer than one businesswoman who discovered they’d run out of lemon bars. Fortunately, the presence of the costumed crowd tended to keep things more peaceful than not.

And they just kept coming. Thor drank on average seven cups of coffee per visit, heavy on the sugar and cream, and informed him grandly that his Devil’s Food cake was the closest thing to divine he’d experienced since leaving Asgard. Natasha Romanoff had more than one date there, if one could call such serious, low-voiced assignations dates, always accompanied by plenty of gingerbread and strong black tea. One burly man who smelled of cigar smoke, metal, and old blood, especially around his tough-knuckled hands, picked up an order of coffee cake for a Professor Xavier, which marked him in all probability as a mutant.

Then it just became ridiculous: _Loki_ showed up one day. From the kitchen, Matt heard Peter’s heartbeat spike in alarm as a well-groomed voice informed them that his brother heartily recommended this establishment and then politely requested a slice of the mandel-epelkake Matt had made for the first time that morning. A frown on his face, Matt listened intently as Peter served up a generous portion of the fragrant almond-apple confection in a paper bag and asked, nervousness pitching his voice higher than usual, if Loki would like anything else, sir. Oh.

Could they be sued for discrimination if they refused to serve criminals? Or at least supervillains? Loki had been convicted in absentia for crimes against humanity... then again, no criminals would probably bar a good portion of their regulars too. Oh well.

That night, someone left a Yelp review stating that for mere mortals, the drudges of the kitchens at Jack’s Breadline did passably well. Four stars.

Actually, the surreal level of their Yelp reviews skyrocketed after that. _And the staff are really nice, great service_ , one said. _The owner doesn’t give you judging looks for showing up in your pajamas or your work uniform no matter how torn up you are_. Matt twitched when he read that one. _Sara Lee’s gonna put a hit out on this guy_ , read another. _Good thing the local crimefighting crowd loves his glazed rods._ He could hear Karen choking on her coffee from here.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome to Jack’s Breadline,” Matt said. “What can I get you?”

The man standing in front of the display case smelled of overwork and cheap Chinese food and not enough sleep, stress-hormones a distinctive aroma that lingered in the folds of his woolen suit. The slide of a leather bag strap against his jacket and the shuffle of papers at his side told Matt either businessman or down-on-his-heels lawyer.

“Got anything to replace your soul?” the man asked mournfully after considering the selections available. “I think I let mine go for too little.”

“Well, there’s our Death by Chocolate,” Matt said, indicating his infamous seven-layer triple chocolate mousse cake sitting on the counter under a glass cake cover. “People say it’s _worth_ your soul. But I think it may be too heavy this early in the day. How about a turnover?”

“Sounds good. What kinds do you have?”

The man ended up with a steaming pear-ginger turnover and a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, ensconced at the table farthest away from the windows with a veritable library of papers spread before him. He stayed there through the morning, occasionally taking refills on coffee when Karen offered them to him, but otherwise engrossed in his work.

It was during one of their rare breaks between waves of customers that Matt heard the probably-businessman-or-lawyer heave a sigh that sounded like all the air was being wrung out of his lungs. That was a sound that needed pastry to assuage if Matt had any experience in the matter. On a whim, he turned to the display case. Each of the hand-lettered signs stuck on metal stands scattered among the various offerings had a printed Braille label on the back, though Matt generally knew the locations of each item by heart, and now he felt around and extracted a strawberry cream scone and brought it over on a plate.

“Oh, hey, thanks, man.” The guy fumbled, reaching into his pocket. “How much do I--?”

“On the house,” Matt assured him. “You sound like you needed it.”

“How’d you know?” The man let out another sigh, exactly like the one that had let Matt know. “Really, thanks. Even an unasked-for -- what is this, a scone? -- even an unasked-for scone is a kindness I don’t deserve these days.”

“You’re pretty hard on yourself, buddy,” Matt noted, hovering at the edge of the table. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Yeah, well.” There was a moist, crumb-y sounding pause as the man took a bite of the scone. “Wow, this is awesome. The turnover was awesome too, by the way -- did you make them?”

That was refreshing, that someone didn’t automatically assume one of the others did the baking just because Matt was blind. “Yeah. It’s mostly me with help from my assistant.”

“Where’d you learn to bake?”

“When I was a kid.” He shrugged, not wanting to go into the details about how the nuns had eventually installed him in the corner of the kitchen to knead bread dough in order to give him something to do. “I’m Matt Murdock, I own and run Jack’s Breadline.” He extended a hand and the man scrambled to take it, his grip sure and strong.

“Foggy Nelson, your newest regular.” Foggy had longer hair; Matt could hear it sway as he tilted his head in curiosity. “Why Jack’s Breadline instead of Matt’s?”

“I named the place after my dad,” Matt explained. “In his memory.” He nodded in the general direction of the photo on the back wall, the faded but still legible Murdock vs. Creel poster affixed there beside it.

There was a creak of wood as Foggy turned in his seat to look, before turning back and exclaiming, “Wait, your dad was Battlin’ Jack Murdock?” He sounded genuinely amazed. “Which means you’re -- hey, I heard about you when you were a kid! What you did, saving that guy...”

Matt drew back, startled at this unexpected recognition. “Oh, I -- I just did what anyone would have.” He could feel the tips of his ears heating, tried to ignore it.

“Bullshit.” Foggy seemed insistent on this. “You are a hero.”

“Are you trying to flatter me into giving you another scone?” Matt asked, recovering with a chuckle. “No, seriously, I’m really not.”

“The world needs more people like you,” Foggy said. “Come on, you got your peepers knocked out saving that old dude.”

“Uh.” Matt paused. “They didn’t get knocked out.”

“Oh good, ‘cause that would be a little freaky. No offense,” he added quickly.

“None taken,” Matt said, more amused than anything. This certainly was not the usual conversation he held with customers. “Most people dance around me like I’m made of glass -- I hate that.”

“Yeah, you’re just a guy, right? A really, really good-lookin’ guy.” Foggy took another bite of his scone and swallowed while Matt raised his brows in startlement.

“Oh, um...”

“Who bakes like a freakin’ blue-ribbon champion,” Foggy continued blithely. “I’m sure the ladies must love that. Am I right?”

Oh. “Right,” he said with a laugh, both at Foggy’s comment and his own ridiculous assumptions. “It’s been known to happen.” He could hear Karen stifling giggles at the register. “Listen, I need to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Foggy.”

“You too and me too. I am going to enjoy the hell out of this tasty tasty scone before I return to the drudgery that is this not so tasty motion.”

So Matt was right, he was a lawyer. “Sounds fun. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Foggy became a regular, though he didn’t always stay as long. He didn’t have a set preference in baked goods, often asking Matt what he recommended that day and always seeming to enjoy his selection thoroughly. It soon got to the point where Matt set aside one of anything new he made so Foggy could try it and give his opinion. He was especially proud of the orange marmalade hibiscus tea bread that earned him a heartfelt groan after Foggy bit into it, smiling widely as Foggy declared it the best thing he’d put in his mouth all month.

“Matt has a crush,” Karen announced sing-song one evening as they were closing down. Matt paused where he was wiping down the front counter and Peter snickered from the kitchen where he was doing the same. “Don’t try to deny it, Murdock, your entire face lights up when Foggy walks through the door.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Matt tried to defend himself. “And interesting, and funny. I like talking with him.”

“Even though he’s a soul-sucking lawyer from the good side of town?” Peter called out. “Slumming it in the Kitchen?”

“Actually, I think he’s the one being soul-sucked,” Karen said thoughtfully before Matt could chew out his assistant. Foggy was native to Hell’s Kitchen, for one. “He certainly doesn’t seem happy working at his job, wherever that is.”

“Landman and Zack,” Matt supplied, thinking of their first conversation: _Got anything to replace your soul?_ “What makes you think he’s not happy?”

“I don’t know. Something about him...” A shift of cloth indicated Karen shrugging. “I just shrugged. But it’s like coming here for a cookie or a muffin and talking to you is the high point of his day.”

“That’s sad.” Peter emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a side towel. “Not to insult your baking, boss, or your charming personality, but that’s sad.”

Matt flicked his own towel at him and Peter yipped. “You missed a spot,” he said. “Next to the sink, near the lip. Go clean it up.”

“How do you even--?”

“Go clean it up.” Muttering in disbelief, Peter went, and then squawked when he found that Matt was right. Matt returned to his own cleaning, strokes broad across the wooden surface, but he found himself mulling on Karen’s words.

Well. He was overdue for an experimenting day, where he holed up in his apartment and tried out different recipes for Jack’s. Usually he invited Karen and more recently Peter to be his testers, but maybe -- was it too forward of him--?

Then Foggy walked in the next day with a woman on his arm. She smelled of salon hair dryers and expensive perfume, the silk charmeuse of her jacket a feather-light whisper over her body. Matt found her to be an immediate affront to his senses as she paused just inside the door and ostensibly looked around.

“So this is where you get your stash? Doesn’t look like much to impress, I have to say.”

“Hey,” Foggy said in protest. “Wait ‘til you try it, at least. They make the best damn croissants this side of Paris, and their tea bread is to commit felonies for.” He stepped further inside and the woman trailed along behind him.

“Hey, Foggy,” Matt greeted as he got to the counter. “Who’s your friend?”

“Matt, this is Marci Stahl. She’s a coworker. I finally got sick of her stealing my muffins and decided to let her in on my secret source. Marci, this is Matt Murdock, the greatest baker since, since...” Matt waited, quirking a brow in amusement. “And I’ve dug myself into a hole,” Foggy finished mournfully.

“You were due,” Marci said, and then to Matt, “Foggy Bear sings your praises like he’s your John the Baptist.” Matt hid a twist of his mouth as he wondered, _Foggy Bear_? “Wait, are those fruit tarts?”

“Strawberry glazed with apricot syrup and blackberry-raspberry,” Matt said. “Though if you come back in a few hours I’ll have one with pears poached in red wine. Not exactly a morning dish, that one.”

“Huh.” Marci sounded reluctantly impressed. “My estimation of this place just went up a few notches.”

“Told you,” Foggy said with an audible smirk. “Matt should be a pastry chef at some five-star restaurant in Manhattan, but he chooses generously to share his bounty with all of us peons at prices we can afford. Not to mention he’s practically endorsed by the Avengers.”

“I’ll believe it when I eat it.” She didn’t sound as acerbic, however, a little more eager to try Matt’s wares. Matt smirked to himself, then came to attention as Foggy hummed thoughtfully.

“So what do you recommend today?”

“The lemon-lime bars turned out pretty well,” Matt said, mentally running through his selections. “The fruit tarts are spectacular -- good eye, Miss Stahl. And I’ve got a batch of lemon-poppyseed muffins that are about to come out of the oven if you can wait five minutes.”

“Ooh. I’ll have a lemon-lime bar and wait on a muffin,” Foggy said. “And a regular-sized house roast.”

“A strawberry tart, please, and likewise for the coffee,” Marci said.

Matt served them and let Karen ring them up, tracking their movements across the room where they found a miraculously empty table. He smiled privately when Marci took her first bite of the tart and drew in a pleased, surprised breath. “Another convert,” Karen said under her breath beside him. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good ingredients, good technique, and a charming personality,” Matt said with a smile, and went to fetch the muffins.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter came in one day sounding like a creaking ship.

“Sorry I’m late, boss,” he puffed, rushing in and shedding his jacket. “The traffic from Queens was insane. I think the Avengers got into it somewhere east of Central Park.”

“They did,” Karen called over. “The news is saying it’s a Doombot.”

“I hate those things,” a customer groused over his hazelnut croissant. Other people piped up and the air was filled with chattering voices, but Matt ignored them all to focus on his assistant as he skidded around the end of the counter for the kitchen. A hairline fracture to a rib -- no, two. Another one developing in his left wrist. Bruising across his chest, more on his back as if he’d been thrown against something, sharp and defined. “Call and let us know next time,” he said absently. “We worry.”

“Yeah, sorry!” There was the sound of running water and Peter washing his hands. “So what’s on our plate for today?” And he seemed fine, he seemed normal, if still a little winded. From his dash across Midtown? Maybe.

The rest of the day, Matt kept a metaphorical eye on Peter. He moved around the kitchen as adroitly as ever and he sounded cheerful enough, but Matt could hear the bones shifting, the microscopic hisses of pain when Peter accidentally strained himself before he recovered for the sake of anybody else present. Now that he thought about it, this wasn’t the first time Peter had shown up to work with injuries. It was always minor bruising, irregular, something to note in the corner of his mind but not a cause for alarm. It wasn’t as if Peter was showing up to work with black eyes and split lips, or regularly hiding his injuries. This, however, was beyond the pale.

From what Matt knew about Peter’s home life, there was no way he was getting even minor bruises from his Aunt May. He’d mentioned once or twice that he used to be bullied at school but that was past tense, had been for a few months.

Eventually Matt tried satisfying his curiosity. He and Peter were in the kitchen, up to their wrists in biscuit dough, with jam and clotted cream standing by. “Peter?” Peter hummed an acknowledgement. “Are you all right?”

That got his assistant to pause. “What do you mean?”

“You’re moving a little stiffly today.” Matt quirked a smile. “You’ve been hiding it well but I can hear you’re in pain. Did something happen?”

“Oh, I got tangled up earlier with a biker who was trying to avoid a nearsighted pedestrian,” Peter said, making a face if his tone was any indication. “Did I not mention?”

The words fell easily from his mouth, but Peter’s heart rate spiked with the lie. Matt kept his expression calm. “I see. You should have said something, I would have sent you home early.”

“It’s not that bad,” Peter said, resuming rubbing butter into his bowl of flour. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning and it’s definitely not something I need to go home early over.” That read true. Or at least that Peter believed that cracked ribs were not worth mentioning. “I’m just a little banged up -- nothing a hot shower and a good night’s sleep won’t take care of.”

“If you say so,” Matt said.

 

* * *

 

Daredevil ran into Spider-man the next night when they both converged on a scream on the east side of the Kitchen. He found the wall-crawler in the midst of subduing one would-be mugger as their prospective victim fled down the alley and introduced himself to the scene by hurling an escrima stick at the other mugger’s head, knocking him into a pile of garbage cans.

“Nice shot,” Spider-man said approvingly. A chemical hiss assaulted Matt’s nose and ears as Spider-man efficiently webbed the muggers to the wall. “I bet you’re killer at horseshoes.”

“I get by.” Matt jumped down to retrieve his weapon, then joined Spider-man up on top of the fire escape looking over the alley. “You’re a long way from your usual stomping grounds. What’re you doing in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I wanted a change of scenery,” Spider-man quipped. “Get out of the house, do a little sight-seeing, see what sort of nightlife I’ve been missing.” Matt waited and the webslinger shrugged. “I had business at Avengers Tower and figured I could lend a hand on the way home.”

Matt resisted the urge to sigh. He didn’t interact with his fellow vigilante often but every time he had an urge to tell Spider-man to go home to his family. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, from his build and his voice. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. Just your friendly out-of-neighborhood Spider-man.” There was a pause, and then, “Uh. I don’t mean to pick on a man’s choice of deodorant but why do you smell like cinnamon?” He sounded bewildered. “’Cause no offense, but it doesn’t exactly fit the fire and brimstone image you otherwise seem to be going for. More like happy grandmothers with a tray of cookies. Unless you’re aiming for the entire devil-tempting-people aspect, in which case good choice, good choice.”

Surreptitiously Matt inhaled. Yeah, he did smell like cinnamon; he’d been putting together an order of snickerdoodles before closing up shop and heading out to patrol. Besides the normal New York alley fug, the air was redolent to his senses with cinnamon, sugar, flour, butter, blueberries--

Wait.

Why did Spider-man smell like he’d been eating one of Matt’s blueberry buttermilk muffins?

Matt turned his face toward the other man. It was possible that he frequented Jack’s in his civilian identity like a lot of his colleagues. Barely anybody recognized Clint Barton, for example, and nobody knew Danny Rand outside of his mask. But there was something beyond the scent: he also _sounded_ familiar, both his voice and the cues of his body. Matt cocked his head to listen. Two cracked ribs, recently-dislocated-then-relocated shoulder, bruises under the stretch and whisper of spandex, a hairline fracture in his wrist--

Oh. Oh no.

The memory struck him like a clarion call: Peter grabbing one of the surplus muffins from the day-old basket on his way out the door just hours earlier, already picking at the plastic wrap to unveil the scent of tart-sweet blueberries to the air.

_Oh hell._

Matt swallowed a groan as the realization hit him with the force of Thor’s hammer. Great, just great. Their friendly neighborhood Spider-man was a high school student he’d last encountered with a streak of flour still smeared across his cheek. Not only did he have superheroes buying his cookies and drinking his coffee, it appeared he had one working for him as well.

“I’m getting nervous over here and I don’t know why I should be,” Spider-man said, perched on the railing now. “Should I be nervous?”

“Just... just go home. It’s a school night.”

“Hey!” Spider-man yelled after him, affronted, but Matt was already leaping away.

 

* * *

 

The solution to how to handle the situation hadn’t presented itself by the time Matt opened up shop the next morning, nor when Peter showed up for his afternoon shift. The cracks in his ribs and wrist had audibly healed, bruising nowhere near as apparent even to his senses. Matt wondered if the accelerated healing could be attributed to the same source as the rest of his powers.

After some deliberation, he decided to keep an eye on the situation but not interfere. Too much. Maybe he could drop a line into someone’s ear; if superheroes were going to frequent his bakery, he might as well take advantage of it, right?

 

* * *

 

Matt soon found out why being a hangout for the superpowered set was not an advantage.

Jack’s Breadline was usually open Monday through Saturday, with the exception of the anniversary of his father’s death. Even when he wanted to do nothing more after coming in from patrol but down a bottle of aspirin and follow it with a fifth of scotch, Matt dragged himself to his bakery rain or shine or alien invasion. Except for one Saturday morning when Matt found himself too sick to get out of bed.

Groaning under the burden of simply being conscious, Matt rolled over on his sweat-soaked sheets to look sightlessly up at the ceiling and thought hard about closing the shop for the day. There were still some leftover cookies and cut bars from the night before, and their stock of bread was holding up pretty well, but the Friday evening college crowd had pretty much cleaned them out otherwise. Plus the standing order from Tony Stark for a Saturday morning breakfast selection, and the fact that Deadpool had been recently sighted within city limits which meant the necessity of having black and white cookies on hand, and the pfeffernüsse which half the Avengers had told him was critical in maintaining the uneasy peace between Thor and Loki...

Shit. Shit shit shit. Even if he called Peter right now at four in the morning on the basis of it being an emergency and told him to hustle his ass down to the shop as soon as his working papers allowed, there was no way he could handle everything by himself in time. He was smart and efficient but he still hadn’t gotten the hang of the perfect pie crust and Matt was not going to risk Bruce Banner Hulking out in his bakery just because his chai custard pie was sub-par. And while Karen could make a mean batch of enchiladas, her baking skills only extended to things out of pop-open cans.

Saturday was their busiest day, though, and it was the height of summer. Tourist season, people wandering randomly into quaint little bakeries... plus the riots that would likely start if he closed down for the day. Matt groaned again. Fuck shit damn. He reached for his phone to dial Peter.

In retrospect, closing down for the day would have resulted in less damage.

Karen called him that evening. “You are never allowed to take a day off again,” she said. She sounded like she needed a Xanax. “Never. Not without a week’s notice and preparation of a sufficient amount of baked goods to cover your absence.”

That... did not sound good. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“You want the list alphabetically or in order of incident?”

That really did not sound good. “Karen, I’m sick,” he moaned. “I don’t need to be stressed out right now, my body can’t take it.”

“Tell that to poor Peter. Deadpool nearly crucified him this morning, literally. And Steve Rogers frowned at him. _Steve Rogers_. I don’t think he’s ever going to recover. I had to practically talk him out of jumping off the George Washington Bridge.”

Oh god. Matt heroically resisted hiding his head under his pillow. He’d heard the sirens throughout the day but hadn’t thought it was that bad. Or connected to his bakery. “What else?”

“Loki decided today was a good day to take the Enchantress out on a date, show her the sights. He was not pleased when he found the proprietor and purveyor of his Midgardian treats out and therefore unable to supply them to his satisfaction.”

Matt winced. “How not pleased?”

“The only reason your bakery is still standing is that there seems to be a moratorium on damaging the place from heroes and villains alike. The pawn shop across the street, however...”

“Oh god.” Matt made a fuzzy mental note to apologize with bear claws for the next month. Mrs. Alricson liked bear claws, right?

“Uh huh. As soon as word got out that people were fighting near Jack’s, things escalated. Across half of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m pretty sure the Mayor of New York wants to discuss contingency measures for this possibly happening again and the Avengers are trying to take you into protective custody. Also, Claire needed to be restrained from marching over to your place and shooting you up with every antibiotic she could lay her hands on just to get you on your feet faster.”

“Peter’s baking isn’t that bad,” he protested weakly. Though he knew how Claire could get if she didn’t get her habitual chocolate espresso brownie in the morning.

“It’s not but he’s not you,” Karen said, stern. “You need to give him hazard pay and a combat bonus for sticking it out today without running off screaming into the night. And teach him how to make your cinnamon-peach rolls because I never want to have to face a disappointed Luke Cage ever again.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Matt returned on Monday, still a little shaky on his pins, he nearly tripped over a crack in the pavement that hadn’t been there before. The smell of concrete dust and shattered brick still lay heavy in the air and he sneezed as he let himself into his bakery. How many people had been involved in this fight? He could make out the odd ozone smell that heralded Thor, the rot-and-gun-oil which characterized Deadpool... even the chemical traces of Spider-man’s webbing combined with chocolate and butter and coffee. Apparently Peter had tried to make his chocolate espresso brownies before getting caught up in the fight.

Matt didn’t bother to flick on the lights as he stood in the doorway and assessed his surroundings. The floor wasn’t as neatly swept as usual and from what he could discern, not all of the baking sheets had been put away, but the chairs were on the tables and nothing seemed broken, so all in all he counted himself fortunate that Jack’s had mostly escaped the chaos. Peter had even started the bread proofing.

“Good morning.”

One minute there was nobody behind him. The next -- a crackle of something Matt had come to define as magic, then a smooth if strangely abashed voice, a male presence in leather and armor. Matt refused to jump, instead turning around carefully to face the newcomer.

“Good morning. We unfortunately don’t open until eight.” As this particular customer knew full well.

“I am not interested in purchasing your wares at this moment.” There was a surprise. Matt couldn’t help but raise his brows expectantly, and Loki stiffened but forged on. “I wish to -- apologize, for the trouble I caused you and your establishment two days ago,” he said, clearly uncomfortable being in this position. “My behavior was unbecoming of a prince of Asgard.”

“I think you’re better off tendering your apologies to the owners of the shops your altercation affected more than mine,” Matt pointed out. He felt Loki draw himself up, affronted, dangerous, and added, “But thank you for your consideration. Will you want your usual later?”

There was a brief hesitation, then disturbed air currents indicating Loki had nodded, slow and uncertain. “I’ll have that ready for you if you care to come back in a few hours.” The Asgardian had settled on an apple turnover and a walnut blondie as his order of choice some time ago.

Loki drew himself up again, a shift of leather and cloth and armor, obviously preparing to leave. Matt couldn’t help but say, “It’s not all on you anyway. From what I heard, half of New York’s resident superpowered entities joined in.”

“Your establishment is quite popular,” Loki remarked, and now his voice was dry with an amusement that suited him much better than the uneasy wariness. He tilted his head, studying him, then said slowly, “As are you. For a mortal, you are quite intriguing, Matthew Michael Murdock.”

Matt wasn’t sure how to take that. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yes. I’m sure you shall.”

Loki wasn’t the only person to show up with an apology that day, or to just check up on him. Though there were fewer mundanes -- no doubt cautious after the goings-on a few days ago -- the numbers were made up by a steady flow of superheroes (and Deadpool) trooping in and out of Jack’s Breadline up to closing time. Thor clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the floor, and declared that he had been much missed. May Parker gave him an actual care package through her nephew, with tea and crackers and a quart container of chicken soup. Pepper Potts sent him a thoughtful get-well card, inscription printed in Braille; there was also a scribbled note in the corner from Stark offering to pay for any damages incurred as well as insisting upon enlarging the kitchen and eating space and installing a state of the art combination coffee roaster, grinder, and espresso machine. Another note from Ms. Potts said he didn’t have to accept that offer.

While at first Matt appreciated the sentiment, he found himself growing annoyed -- and fatigued -- as the day dragged on. The next person to jokingly propose to him was getting their cupcake privileges revoked for life. Eventually he ducked into the kitchen and refused to come out, even though it left Karen to field all the well-wishers on her lonesome when Peter joined him, looking cowed. “I feel like I’m one bad cookie away from being lynched,” he said, slumping against the back wall.

“You don’t make bad cookies,” Matt told him as he brought together a chocolate-swirled pound cake batter. “I just make really good ones.”

Peter groaned. “Thanks, boss. Nice to know all of Hell’s Kitchen plus the entire New York superhero community think I’m woefully inadequate cookie-baker compared to you. My psyche may never recover.” He paused, considering. “That’s your superpower, right? Baking goods that would make grandma cry?”

Matt chuckled. “Some would say it’s my ability to run on truly inadequate amounts of sleep.”

“Oh my god, I am never complaining about having to get up early for school again,” Peter said, throwing a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god. Four in the morning. How do you not pass out into the oven every day?”

“I’m used to it.” He tipped the plain half of the batter into a series of prepared loaf pans, following it with the chocolate half and running a spoon through the pans to create the swirls. “Like I said: truly inadequate amounts of sleep.” Matt usually ended up taking a nap between closing down the bakery and going out on patrol or meditating when he couldn’t.

“Ugh.” Peter shook his head before straightening up from his slouch. “I’d better get back out there. Your adoring-public-slash-my-lynch-mob awaits.”

“I’d rather they make reparations to those whose livelihoods they did trash,” Matt muttered as he slid the loaf pans into the oven. Hell’s Kitchen had enough problems without superpowered fights flattening it for ludicrous reasons, even though the reason might be his chocolate sheet cake. Peter stopped at the entrance of the kitchen as if surprised, before exiting without comment.

Matt only emerged from the kitchen near closing when Karen poked her head in and told him Foggy was there. “Hey, Matt!” Foggy greeted him cheerfully. “Good to see you, buddy.”

“Hey,” Matt said, feeling better than he had in hours. Where she was collecting dishes safely across the room, Karen hummed knowingly. Matt decided to ignore that, instead saying, “Can I get you anything or is this a social visit?”

“Column A, Column B. I thought we could talk over a little something.”

There wasn’t much left in the display case after the predations of New York’s superheroic finest. Before Foggy could make a choice from amongst the sadly denuded remains, Matt said, “I think I have some tea cake in the back. It’s ready for the day-old basket but if you want it, it’s yours. Pineapple with berry tea and topped with coconut sugar.”

“You are so bad for my waistline,” Foggy groaned. “Sold. Sold sold sold.”

“Be right back.” Matt fetched the last remaining slices of the tea cake he’d prepared on Friday afternoon and determined them to be in good-enough condition to feed Foggy with a careful sniff before plating them and bringing them out. “Here you go. Let me make sure my pinwheels aren’t burning and I’ll be right with you.”

Foggy was stifling moans of pleasure when Matt slid into the seat across from him at the back table, cinnamon-walnut pinwheels secured. “How’d I miss this?” he wondered through sugar-sticky lips. “You said this was consigned to the day-old basket?”

Matt chuckled. “Most of it sold out really fast Friday but then the last few slices just sat there. And then I was out Saturday and Peter was too busy to push them.”

“Understatement.” Foggy shamelessly licked his fingers before reaching belatedly for a napkin. “I mean, he held out pretty well from what I saw, but people noticed a difference. Your young Padawan needs further training, O Master.”

“I wonder if I should feel gratified or annoyed,” Matt said. “Recipes are recipes. You follow the directions and get a result. Peter’s been working with me long enough that he knows what to do without me. He makes things all the time without my help.”

“It was probably confirmation bias,” Foggy pointed out. “You weren’t there, so people automatically expected the food to be worse and took it out on him.”

“Point. I need to tell Peter that. He’s only half-joking when he says he still fears for his life.”

“Baking. Serious business.” Foggy shook his head and started in on his second slice of tea cake. “Who’d have thought?”

“You’d be surprised,” Matt said dryly. “Ever heard a yuppie denied his cinnamon roll? It’s not pretty.” Foggy snorted, and he continued, “I guess for the sake of my innocent little assistant and my register attendant, I can’t get sick again for the foreseeable future.

“How bad was it?” Foggy wanted to know. His voice softened a hair -- unconsciously, Matt thought, but the concern still warmed him. He shrugged, however, playing it off.

“A low grade fever, some other issues. Nothing serious, just enough to keep me bedridden. To the disappointment of my faithful customers.”

Foggy winced. “Yeah, about that. Holy shit. I thought being popular with Captain America and all the others was pretty cool until Saturday happened.”

“You weren’t caught in the crossfire, were you?” Matt asked with a flash of concern. Foggy didn’t seem injured, he couldn’t hear anything--

“Nah, man, I grabbed a brownie and hightailed it out of there before the fireworks really started.”

“Good.” Though from all reports, the safest place in Hell’s Kitchen on Saturday had been inside Jack’s. “Nobody should have to risk their life for a brownie.”

“I don’t know, Matt,” Foggy said complacently. “Yours are to die for. I mean it.”

In spite of his unease at the thought that such a thing could have actually happened, a small smile touched his lips. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Out of all the Avengers likely to drop by Jack’s, Tony Stark was actually nearer the bottom of the list. Which Matt figured was a good thing because while his presence was good for business, Matt always found his visits a little wearying, mostly because of the circus that inevitably developed around the man. Which he encouraged, of course, soaking in the attention like sunshine.

This, then, was not your usual Tony Stark visit. Matt drew to a stop when he realized there was someone slumped against the front door of Jack’s. The scent of expensive patent leather shoes and the wool of a nice suit warred with the fog of alcohol, telling him that this wasn’t just a wino taking shelter on his front stoop from the elements. The weakened lung capacity and constant low-key hum from the man’s chest confirmed who he was.

“We don’t open until eight,” Matt said quietly, and Stark sputtered into, if not full consciousness, at least an increased awareness of his surroundings. How he hadn’t been rolled already by an opportunistic passer-by Matt didn’t know.

“I know, I know, but I really wanted one of your custard tarts,” Stark said blearily, trying to straighten up. He ended up deciding he preferred leaning against the doorframe instead. “Maybe a zeppole if you’ve got ‘em.”

He didn’t, but that could be remedied. Deep-frying was not one of Matt’s favorite things to do but he could manage. “Sure. Want some coffee in the meantime?”

“Please,” Stark said. “I will buy all the coffee on the premises if you will make me a cup.”

Matt roasted and ground and brewed a cup of the Blue Mountain he had stashed away for emergencies. Stark nearly fell nose-first into it in his eagerness to inhale the steam and Matt left him to it, switching the display case light on as an afterthought, while he fetched the necessary ingredients for zeppole. Today would be a doughnut day, he decided. It’d been awhile since he’d served up his lavender-berry rings.

By the time he slid a plate of piping-hot zeppole tossed with cinnamon-sugar in front of Stark, the man had recovered enough for decent human interaction and was peering around the darkened interior of the bakery. “I’m seeing cake display,” he said. “Cannolis. Enough cookies to put the Girl Scouts out of business.” The shifts in air current indicated that Stark was gesturing with his coffee cup. “You could do catering.”

“I’m fine with how things are,” Matt said. Stark picked up one of the zeppole and yelped when it proved to be too hot to handle. “Careful, those are fresh.”

“Some things are worth burning your tongue off for.”

Was that a proposition? Matt thought he could hear a pseudo-leer in his voice before Stark proceeded to do just that, alternating sucked-in breaths to cool his mouth and noises of appreciation. Then again it could be a habitual behavior. Certainly the press over Stark’s bedroom exploits had died down once he’d made the nature of his relationship with Ms. Potts clear.

Whatever, it didn’t bother or concern him. Matt retreated to the office, where he updated the Twitter account Peter had insisted he needed:

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY  
Doughnut day! Come for a French Toast doughnut or a lavender-berry ring, stay for the zeppole and beignets!

At least doughnuts cooked quickly, but that also meant he needed to pay constant attention to them instead of working on preparing something else. He’d started the cinnamon roll dough rising before moving onto the frying portion for the zeppole, so that was taken care of, and making the base for the cut bars was second nature by now. He liked to prepare the fillings for his bars the night before to let the flavors mingle, so it was only a matter of spreading them on and popping the pans into the oven. The triple-chip cookie dough had spent its requisite time in the fridge, and all that needed was to be scooped out and baked. That could be done later.

About an hour had passed before Matt thought to check on his early-morning guest again, only to find him gone and the plate placed by the register. It was atop a stack of bills, far more than the zeppole were worth even if they were all ones. Somehow Matt doubted they were all ones. With a sigh, he set them in the lower register drawer for Karen to sort later.

Given how his life was going nowadays, it wasn’t much to Matt’s surprise that this first pre-opening encounter began a series of early morning visits with Stark at varying levels of sobriety. Most of the time Matt poured him into a seat and brought him something from the day-old basket and a cup of black coffee. Sometimes, however, Stark rolled up his sleeves and insisted on something to do. “I’m avoiding Pepper, let me help you set up shop,” he’d say. “I work for coffee and cookies. And tiramisu, if you have any.”

At first Matt wasn’t sure how to deal with Stark’s presence in his space. It’d been difficult enough to adjust to Peter, and he’d hired him only on Karen’s insistence. But Stark seemed to respect another man’s working area, though occasionally there were worrying mutters about _improving_ things. Matt usually had him washing dishes as the option least likely to end with his walk-in turned into a homicidal piece of A.I.

Occasionally he wondered if he should, maybe, report this to Pepper Potts or _someone_ at Stark Industries whose official job it was to wrangle the company namesake. But Stark was harmless enough -- comparatively -- and he usually left before the morning crowds hit except for the one time when he ran into Steve Rogers on his way out the door and they had a bit of a thing on the front stoop that involved a lot of disappointed looks and snippy remarks and drew most of Matt’s patrons into being their audience and also attracted a news crew. Karen, with more courage than he’d given her credit for, eventually shooed them away, possibly with an actual broom. Matt wasn’t sure.

And that wasn’t the only way Stark affected his life. Generally Matt could tell when he was about to go on an all-night bender in his lab. The Avengers occasionally put in an order for an assortment of things, the size of which led Matt to assume they were sharing the box of goodies, but Stark tended toward crisp and light, fruit or custard fillings, with the occasional side venture into something flavored with coffee, and he’d load up for bear. Someone from the Tower would come by to pick up his order -- never another Avenger, just a regular intern for SI who Matt always plied with an extra cookie or two -- and then soon enough he’d hear stories about SI’s latest technological breakthrough or outlandish-but-strangely-obtainable proposal. Not that all of SI’s developments came directly from Stark’s personal lab, but there was a definite correlation between Matt sending out a box of raspberry puff pastry straws and half a dozen apple-cinnamon cream puffs and Stark Industries releasing another press statement down the line.

It was, to be sure, an odd relationship. If it even qualified as a relationship. But he eventually received a thank-you note from Ms. Potts about putting up with Tony’s occasional intrusions and he sent her a selection cupcakes of by means of saying _no problem_.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt came around to a -- ha -- blinding headache and the sensation of pavement against his cheek. For a moment the world reeled around him: how had -- what--

\--had he really just been knocked out by a run of the mill mugger? Embarrassment and shame flushed his entire body. Oh dear _god_.

Biting back a noise of sheer self-disgust, Matt lay still and focused, expecting his pockets to have been turned inside-out. But -- no? There were no foreign smells on his clothes save for what he was rolling around on. He and his belongings appeared to be unmolested. Though not alone: overhead, two voices were talking in strident tones. Pushing past the pain with the ease of long practice, he focused. There was something odd about the fear that permeated one voice -- they’d just coshed a supposedly helpless blind man in a back alley, why would either of them be afraid?

“Shit, man, you know who this is?” one of his attackers was saying. He sounded genuinely terrified. “This is the guy who runs Jack’s Breadline! You know, the place with the pignoli cookies you like?”

There was a moment of horrified silence. Then the man who liked pignoli cookies whispered, in a way that suggested abject denial of an imminent horrible future, “No.”

“ _Yes_. We’re fucked. We’re fucked. Fucking Captain America is one of his regulars!” He swallowed, a rattling noise in a suddenly-dry throat. “ _We are so fucked_.”

If Matt’s head weren’t pounding like a conga line on steroids, he would have found the situation hilarious. Apparently his baking afforded him more protection than his armor ever did. Criminals weren’t afraid to hurt Daredevil, but the repercussions for laying a finger on Matt Murdock, baker to superhumans...

“Calm down, calm down,” Cookie-man said. He seemed to be trying to reassure both his companion and himself. “He’s blind and we caught him by surprise. There’s no way he can identify us.”

“You think that’d stop the Avengers?” the first voice demanded. “Oh shit, I don’t wanna die!”

If they were smart, they would have left already. Not that it would stop Daredevil from tracking them, but they couldn’t know that. Matt pointedly let out a pained sound, stirred.

“Oh god, he’s awake.” There was a scuffling noise before someone dropped to their knees beside him. “Can we escort you home, sir?” Cookie-man’s fright bled out of every pore even as he attempted to be respectful. Matt choked down laughter. “Shit, we didn’t hit you too hard, did we?”

“I’m -- ah -- _ow_.” He bit back a groan and carefully sat up, assisted by rough but worried hands. This probably qualified as one of the strangest situations he’d ever been in.

“Please don’t sic Captain America on us, sir,” one of them pleaded.

“Or the Hulk,” the other added. “We’re sorry, we are so sorry.”

It was like they thought he had them on speed-dial. “You just tried to roll a blind man,” Matt pointed out, not a little acerbic. “What makes you think you don’t deserve Captain America on your ass? Or Daredevil?” He paused meaningfully. “If you’re lucky, Daredevil won’t find you tonight. He likes my raspberry muffins.”

“Oh shit,” Cookie-man breathed. And then Matt was alone in the alley as the two gave up any pretense of helping him and fled. Matt dragged himself to his feet, winced as he ran cautious fingers over the goose-egg developing on his skull. The soreness on his cheek meant a visible abrasion as well. If those two were lucky, his regulars wouldn’t storm the city looking for them tomorrow after they got a glimpse of his face.

Somehow, Matt wasn’t counting on it.

 

* * *

 

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY  
Today’s pies: French coconut, orange creamsicle. #mayhavebogartedaslice #couldnotresist #employeeperks

 

* * *

 

There were only a few permanent items on the rotating list that comprised Matt’s offerings from day to day. Cinnamon rolls were one, as were the chocolate espresso brownies. Blueberry buttermilk muffins were a mainstay -- couldn’t argue with the classics -- as was coffee cake and an assortment of danishes and croissants. Otherwise, Matt played around. The display case was always stuffed near to overflowing with his experiments: glazed fruit tarts, rows of fresh cookies and colorful macarons, pastries dotted with nuts and chocolate or filled with flavored creams and drizzled with lines of thick sugar icing. Three different kinds of cut bars took up half a shelf daily, chocolate and hazelnut rich beside bright lemon and lime or strawberry-cinnamon or peach and ginger. Brownies dusted with mint sugar nudged shoulders with caramel walnut blondies.

Pies fought for space atop the display case. Today one golden French coconut pie and one orange creamsicle pie, topped with a good three inches of toasted meringue, were set proudly there on cake stands under glass. On the counter itself were any cakes Matt baked as the whim struck him. He didn’t have much call to practice his cake-baking skills, though he made a mean champagne lemon chiffon, light as air and delicately flavored. And his Death by Chocolate was always in demand.

People asked him how he’d learned how to make so many different things, or more perspicaciously, where he’d been trained. To which Matt always smiled disarmingly, said something pithy about helping out a lot in the kitchen when he was younger. Not many people learned the additional detail that it had been the kitchen of a Catholic orphanage.

It wasn’t just kneading bread dough that Matt liked. The focus it took to properly measure out ingredients, to mix them just enough and not overmuch, to make sure the flour was clear of bug parts or the cinnamon wasn’t ten months old, it had helped to push the world away, made it less immediate during a time when he desperately needed a refuge from his own haywire senses. The fact that he got to eat the results of his efforts was a bonus. The fact that they didn’t always taste good drove him to improve.

He was so angry, after Stick left. Everybody left. His mom, his dad, Stick -- but he had his hands, and he could create things, and the things he created made people around him happy with him, less likely to forget him. His senses could be used for something tangible and immediate, not just the unknown purpose toward which Stick had driven him. Baking settled him in his skin.

And if he occasionally punched down bread dough with a little too much enthusiasm, well, the bread didn’t mind.

 

* * *

 

Matt sniffed the contents of the open sack of flour, brows knitting. “Uh oh,” Peter said from where he stood across from him. “I know that look. Not good?”

“Not so much,” Matt said, thoroughly displeased. “We’re sending it back.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.” Opening this first sack was for show; he didn’t have to check the rest of them to know that the flour was tainted with some sort of chemical additive. Not the usual bleaching agents or other dough improvers found in factory-use flour, but something else. Matt frowned, running the powder through his fingers. The additive felt crystalline to his touch, rough and ragged in a way that the grains of flour lacked and wholly unfamiliar. He chanced a quick lick of his finger and then spat it out into the sink as Peter startled. Oh no. No no no. No matter what the crap was, Matt was not going to suffer this flour in his kitchen.

Why would Joe Beleskey add anything to his product? To cover up sub-par wheat? An unlucky contamination at the mill? But why would an organic flour mill have any sort of chemicals on the premises in the first place? Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe he’d been taken in by his own supplier, but either way Matt had to send it back. Dammit. With barely any suitable flour, their week was fucked.

Peter had long since become accustomed to Matt’s excruciating standards regarding his ingredients and he didn’t ask why Matt was rejecting what to him probably looked like perfectly acceptable flour, but he had another concern in mind: “Uh, boss. Not arguing with you but we’re a bakery.” He sounded uncertain, echoing Matt’s own thoughts. “What’re we going to make without flour?”

Carefully washing his hands, Matt rifled through his repertoire of items, trying to remember what he _could_ bake without wheat flour. Their usual flourless chocolate cake was going to be a lifesaver, as were macarons and anything else based on ground almonds. Meringues dipped in chocolate? Maybe macaroons topped with toasted nuts. Flourless peanut butter cookies, flavored mousses. Polenta cake.

“We’ll manage,” he said aloud. “It’ll be a good chance to test some new items. Here--” He groped for the pad of paper that hung from the walk-in door and began scribbling down possibilities with the attached pen. “No special orders this week, we don’t even have enough regular flour to fill Mrs. Johnson’s cookie box for church.”

“Maybe we can declare it gluten-free week,” Peter said, still sounding dubious but gamely trying to spin this. “Though we’re totally going to be accused of selling out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Matt said, thoughtful. “We don’t carry as many gluten-free items as I’d like in general, so this would be an opportunity to see which ones are popular.” He could imagine Peter’s grin at Matt’s approval, heard the pleased chuff of breath. Sometimes he forgot how _young_ his assistant still was, Spider-man or not. “You want to handle the press?”

“Oh yeah. All over it, boss.” Peter dealt with the social media side of things out of both necessity and preference. JAWS hated Facebook with the fire of a thousand suns, and Matt would rather spend his time baking than updating his status for all of their account’s so-called friends. Peter jokingly called his posts press releases, said it was good practice for his journalism class.

“I’ll get you a list of items soon so you can start advertising,” Matt told him. “In the meantime, get Karen to call up Joe Beleskey and ask him what went wrong with this batch. He’s usually dependable so I’m hoping this is a fluke instead of the start of a trend.” It wasn’t many mills that would grind flour to Matt’s specifications and he and Beleskey had had a good working relationship for years. He’d hate to give that up.

“Will do.” Peter went to find Karen and Matt considered his list, the additive dismissed to a corner of his mind.

 

* * *

 

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY  
It’s gluten-free week at Jack’s! Try our flourless chocolate cake and peanut butter cookies. Trust us, you won’t miss the flour #glutenfree #sogood

 

* * *

 

Gluten-free week was surprisingly successful, save for a few die-hards who really couldn’t live without their morning cranberry-orange muffin. Matt assured them that the muffins would be once again available next week, as soon as they sorted out things with their supplier. Beleskey had no idea his product had been contaminated, but used to Matt occasionally rejecting a batch for one reason or another, was willing to test samples and get back to him. In the meantime Matt turned out tray after tray of macarons, grain-free chocolate chip cookies, amaretti and biscotti, honey-almond squares, and flourless orange cake. Peter had his hands full with gluten-free chocolate cake the entire week.

On Sunday morning, Beleskey called to tell Matt that he couldn’t find any contaminants in that particular batch of flour, causing Matt to frown as he hung up. Either their tests weren’t calibrated for whatever additive it was that had found its way into the shipment, or the shipment had been contaminated between the mill and the bakery. Neither option was pleasing.

Matt did the only thing he could think of: in lieu of sending the sample he’d kept to a private testing facility, he opted to take advantage of his clientele and gave it to Bruce Banner when he came around for a slice of pecan-maple pie and asked to have it analyzed, citing suspicions that his supplier was doctoring his product. Surprised but appropriately concerned, Banner agreed, and then all Matt could do was wait.

 

* * *

 

And then the week after, this one yielding a perfectly normal flour shipment, things were clarified.

If Matt could admit it, it honestly felt weird to be held in so much regard based on the quality of his chocolate-chip muffins as opposed to anything more personal, like his character or his convictions. But sometimes, such as right now, it might come in handy. People had to be looking for him, right? People who could do something effective about his situation? Which was currently bound to a folding chair in an echoing warehouse near the Hudson, listening to a woman lay out a request.

“It’s simple, Mr. Murdock,” the woman said, businesslike. Her voice sounded odd, muffled and echoing at the same time. Matt figured she was likely wearing a mask, a metal one. She was flanked by the two men who had dragged him here. “All you need to do is add this powder to your wares for a week. Nothing easier. It’s heat-stable, tasteless, and odorless so it won’t even affect the quality of your baking.”

Surreptitiously Matt tested his bonds again. Nothing doing -- the zip ties were nearly cutting off his circulation and there was nothing sharp in his vicinity he could use to saw through them. “Somehow I don’t think that should be my main concern,” he said, sitting back in the chair. “And if I refuse?”

“I really don’t wish to get anyone else involved,” the woman sighed. “It’s a waste of time, money, and resources. But soon your employees might find it necessary to quit working for you and go on... disability. And I understand Mr. Parker lives with his elderly aunt?”

He couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the threat to Karen and Peter. And Peter’s Aunt May; Matt had met her a few times and found himself delighted with his assistant’s guardian. And the woman’s voice had briefly slipped from its brisk tones to something more -- eager. Anticipatory. Unstable.

Dammit. Stall, stall. “And if I were to say yes, I suppose it’s not so simple as my agreeing to do your bidding and you letting me go.”

“Of course not, Mr. Murdock. We won’t insult you by taking you for a fool -- please extend us the same courtesy.”

Heels clacked across concrete toward him. The woman held something up in her hand: metal and glass and plastic, liquid trapped in a narrow cylinder -- a hypodermic. Shit, shit, goddammit, _no_ \--

“ _You will not touch him_.”


End file.
